The Tale of Vorsa Jahak
by Pokybyte
Summary: The Dothraki are many things, but one word in particular can describe their methods: harsh. Children with imperfections are left to die, mistakes are punished heavily, slaves viewed as little more than working animals. Vorsak is lucky his father won him the right not to be abandoned at birth. But now he is gone, so the boy has to fend for himself. Worldbuilding abounds.
1. Chapter 1

**I'm new to learning the Dothraki language and won't be writing sentences. I just like individual words. Generally, a translation isn't far away if I use one of their words :) I own nothing but some of the characters.**

**Dothraki Games**

It was too hot. The midday sun was high in the sky, shining so brightly and strongly that there was a haze in the air, a shimmer coming off anything unlucky enough not to be in the shade. Of course, in the Dothraki Sea, that meant pretty much everything as far as the eye could see. Vorsak felt the familiar itch of a rash coming along the inside of his thighs and cursed every god he could think of. Everyone else was fine with the temperatures. He, on the other hand, felt like he was a mare in heat. Suffocating in this humid environment, sweat pouring down his face and into his blue eyes, his throat parched. Vorsak pulled another one of the dulled _loqam _arrows from his quiver and took aim at the canteen perched 20 feet on top of the tent pole. It would have been an easy shot if not for a few small details: he was riding around the pole on a horse, controlling it with his legs, and shooting his _Kohol _at a gallop. That, and the fact that four others were trying to do exactly the same thing faster than him, their horses kicking up a cloud of dust they all rode through again and again.

The competition among the eleven year-olds was fierce: Kreyo, the son of the _khal _himself, bore mentioning first. He was strong in a fight and a fast rider, but not the best archer. To him, nothing seemed to matter but doing his father proud, he even avoided games. Then there was Thokk, already one of the candidates for being a future _dothrakhqoyi, _since Kreyo would obviously need some bloodriders if he made _khal _himself. That is, unless Thokk killed him before then at a wedding or something. He was tall, the best rider in their group and a born killer. His favourite job after raids carried out by the blooded warriors on the _Lhazareen _was pulling arrows from victims, especially those who were still alive. Vorsak had seen him toy with a dying woman, forcing the arrow in deeper and causing much unneeded pain. Bossak on the other hand was one of the quiet ones. He tended to avoid conflict and quietly got on with whatever task he had been assigned. Vorsak liked him because he was the one person he was sure had never wronged him. Then, there was Fogo. Fogo was the cunning one, light on his horse and easily the best marksman of the group, he tended to win these games of _osfir eveth. _

The rules of the game were simple: the tent pole was raised with the large canteen filled with water sitting on top. The children would ride around in circles, firing blunted arrows at it to make it fall off. Whoever got it down got to drink first and to his fill, and then chose the order of those who drank after him. This would be their ration until dusk, and every drop counted. Someone who drank all of it might be comfortable, but would have the disdain of the four other participants to deal with. That risk diminished as the canteen got passed along, until usually the fifth person would only get very little. Not leaving anything for the last drinker would be dishonourable, so would never happen. If everyone shot their twenty arrows and missed, the water would go to the slaves. Simple, easy. Vorsak _hated _the water roundabout, and always had since he was four years old and introduced to the game for the first time. As well as being a game of skill, it was also obviously a popularity contest. Depending on who won the former, he lost the latter frequently, usually drinking last.

It was still way too hot. Vorsak pulled the string back on his _kohol _once more and let go the instant he felt his aim was true. The soft twang of the bow was followed by a whistling sound as the arrow went wide, landing harmlessly in the grass. Little children screeched as they raced to find it, lost in their own job and eager for the reward; usually some non-alcoholic _lamekh_. Horse-milk was a highly sought-after snack among children, it made one feel full. This was not something he had felt very often since his last birthday, as children aged eleven were no longer really children. Apart from war and marriage, Dothraki boys and girls of his age now had to fulfil the same tasks as adults. The time not spent warring and mating was instead spent preparing for them in later life. At night, parents took over the teaching of individual tasks. That way, a tanner would teach his son how to work leather, a horse master would show his son how to breed and train horses and a mother showed her daughter how to make sure the tent was prepared every day, or how to tell the slaves what needed doing.

Another arrow flew, this time it seemed to scrape the canteen but the blasted thing stood firm on top of the pole. Vorsak's horse seemed to be getting tired and he gave her a swift kick with both feet. If Master Drollo saw the horse slow, the boy knew he was in trouble. Luckily, having sat in a saddle almost his entire life, he had noticed the change in the beast's movement before any observer could. Thokk was not so lucky, his mare also having run tired, and the master's whip was cracked and wrapped expertly around the boy's arm, unhorsing him. He crashed into the dirt and the gathered mothers and girls cackled with laughter. After freeing his hand violently, he caught up with his mare and, roaring with anger and frustration, punched her on the nose. A loud gasp escaped the women's lips, quickly followed by insults and cries of outrage. Hitting a horse like that was absolutely forbidden among the Dothraki, the animals were their partners, their servants and even their friends. Thokk knew he was in trouble and tried to run but again, the whip was too quick for him. This time however, it hit his leg and did not wrap itself around it. Instead, it cracked and left a red gash on his calf muscle. As any child would, he screamed.

Careful not to let his horse slow down, Vorsak smirked. At least he wouldn't be drinking last today. He aimed at the canteen again, less concerned than he was before, and with a _thunk_, his arrow hit the pole, but not the container. Looking at his three remaining competitors, the blue-eyed boy saw they too were now on their last arrows. His arms ached from the constant drawing of the bow, nineteen arrows had missed their target. Thokk had been carried away by his ashamed mother, who knew that now he wouldn't be able to ride for a while and would therefore be among the slaves and babies in the carts. A true blight on Thokk's family's honour, the naughty boy could be sure of some severe punishment coming from his father in particular. Ralthokk was not known for his gentle manner. It was known that he had once killed four men at one wedding, men who had wanted to mate with his sister. Then, he had taken her for himself that night despite her wishes. There was no taboo against incest among the Dothraki, however the child had been deformed at birth and been left in the grass that very same night. His sister had never recovered from the pain and eventually been taken by merciful gods.

A sudden strong gust of wind came, throwing Kreyo's final arrow off-course, much to his dismay. Vorsak breathed a sigh of relief at the fresh air. The sweat on his forehead cooled his head now, drying as it did and momentarily not running into his eyes. _This is it, now or never_. Once the wind stopped, the boy let go of the arrow and bowstring, making sure to keep his recurved bow on-target. As his arrow began its flight path, Vorsak noticed Bossak's last arrow fly past the canteen, and Fogo's was somehow wildly off, nowhere near the target. Against all odds, the final arrow hit true, knocking the water off the pole and, with a soft _thump_, it landed on the grass below. Noticing his change of stance, Vorsak's mare slowed to a trot. Vorsak guided her to the canteen, hopping off to pick it up.

Master Drollo was not impressed. After all, it had been the boys' last arrow that brought the water down, and Thokk had disgraced them all with his foul behaviour. However, they had succeeded and the rules dictated that the children had a right to the water. His job done, he left to report Ralthokk of his son's misdeed after telling the boys to share the water between the four of them. The three other boys turned to Vorsak expectantly.

"Well, _Ninthqoyi_, are you going to drink?" asked Kreyo. "We don't have all day. My father wants to show me some things about being a _khal_ today."

Blood sausage. Not a nice nickname, but Vorsak supposed it made sense. Of course, his mother called him _Vorsa Jahak_, Firebraid, because she said when he had been born his hair had already looked like flames. Vorsak was not convinced and simply called his hair bright orange, although he was glad his mother hadn't named him after the juicy orange fruit, _sathomakh_. Even at his young age, he knew he was lucky to be alive. Others would probably have left him like the baby Ralthokk had with his sister. Then again, how could he not know? Disgusted Dothraki reminded him every single day. His mother had told him that his father was a man from far away, way beyond the Dothraki Sea and even the Free Cities, across the _Poison Sea_. Vorsak shuddered at the thought of the place, although he had never been there himself. He had heard horrible things about it. Just one cup from the Poison Sea could kill a large man, and the water became mountains, smashing all who dared attempt to cross on their flimsy floating tents. How, then, his father had crossed, he had no idea. Perhaps on a dragon. Vorsak opened the canteen and sniffed the contents. It was indeed water. He took a nice, long swig, taking care not to spill any of the precious liquid. After swallowing three mouthfuls, he stopped.

"Calm yourself, K_halzolat_, for you are not next. Bossak, you may take the gourde." Said Vorsak, reaching to give the other boy the bottle.

"_Khalzalat?" _shrieked Kreyo, his voice getting unusually high. "You dare call me the little _khal_? My father will have you punished for you insolence."

Vorsak knew an empty threat when he heard one, and snorted. As if the_ khal_ would defend his son from petty insults. If Kreyo could not defend himself from a few verbal attacks then so be it, especially since the _khal_ was a fair leader and would listen to each side of a story before making a decision. Bossak took his swig of water, and gave it back to Vorsak. He was keeping the water in his cheeks, only swallowing small amounts at a time to make the thirst go away. He swore it made him less thirsty in the long run. What it certainly did for quite some time, was keep him quiet, as he couldn't talk with his mouth so full.

"Fogo," said the winner with a smile, "it is your turn. Please drink."

The canteen disappeared out of Vorsak's hands before he could blink. Fogo had obviously been thirsty, the little brown boy taking quick, small sips.

"Thank you for that, _Deirakhi_," he said, smiling, "I was sure you were going to get it, I knew we could count on you. I was just sure."

Fogo winked and, having had his fill for now, he gave the canteen back to Vorsak. Lightboy was another nickname given to him, one he didn't mind as much since it was simply the truth. Though he was tanned, he was nowhere near as dark as most of the others. In truth, he was more distracted by the wink. With Fogo, _everything _meant something. Thinking back, that last arrow had been surprisingly wide, as if Fogo hadn't even tried to get it on target. But why? The lad had risked everything because he trusted Vorsak? That was clearly a mistake. _Noone _trusted the red-haired boy in the entire _khalasar_.

At last, it was Kreyo's turn. He angrily snatched the canteen out of Vorsak's hands, opened it and took two long, big gulps, easily taking half of the remaining water for himself. Bossak, normally calm and reserved, seemed to twitch at the sight, but he said nothing.

"Finally," said Kreyo, obviously refreshed. "How am I to become _khal_, if no one gives me their extra water?"

With those words he left to find his father, having given the water back to Vorsak without even looking at him, as if he were a slave. It didn't matter, he was used to that kind of treatment. The three boys watched Kreyo trudge toward the great fire. The_ khalasar_ had made camp here three days ago and the fire was the centre of the camp. Fifteen thousand men, women, children and slaves were stuck here until the _khal_'s brother arrived with his own, slightly smaller _khalasar. _The two hordes were meeting to make the journey to Vaes Dothrak together, showing their united strength to any who would dare stand against them.

"I do believe one usually _earns_ the extra water," said Fogo, getting up to leave and attend his chores as well. "Someone ought to tell him that before he becomes _khal _or we'll have the spoiled brat leading the _khalasar _from a wagon he'll be so coddled."

Bossak nodded in agreement. He was quiet, but something seemed to have snapped today as he watched Kreyo drink. It was hardly the first time this had happened, but he was a principled young boy who hated seeing injustice and dishonourable acts. If Vorsak hadn't known better he would have said Bossak was angry. Unheard of. He was an extremely strong boy, his father was a smith and was already showing him how to make a good "arakh", but he had never shown anger before. It was important not to mistake Bossak's father for a slave who made everyday weapons for Dothraki warriors. No, he was a weapons master smith, capable of forging harder, lighter and sharper weapons than any slave could possibly hope to achieve. Thinking of the arakh got Vorsak dreaming. All the boys wished for such a blade deeply, but only the blooded were allowed to wield them. For now, they had to be content with their daggers, bows and whips, and were expected to be masters of those before their blooding.

Soon, Vorsak was alone with the water. Each boy was allowed to come to him once more to take a drink, but the order was the same as before. That meant if Kreyo wanted to drink, he had to wait for Bossak and Fogo to come and drink before him whenever they felt like it. Knowing Fogo, he would wait for Kreyo to get thirsty. They would then negotiate a price, which meant that in effect he would receive something for drinking. This was typical of Fogo: always twisting things to his advantage.

Unlike the other boys, Vorsak had no father to go to learn a trade. Initially, this had upset him, but his mother had somehow convinced Master Drollo to train him after a long, private chat in their tent. Vorsak wondered what she had said to convince him, but he always seemed happy around her and the red-haired boy was learning a lot from him. Drollo was the _khalasar_'s most respected trainer of warriors, a legend who by rights probably should have had a horde of his own. People sang of Drollo's prowess in combat, and it was only due to his age that he had stopped being on the frontline during raids. It was said that he had battled the champion of Meereen and decapitated him, then stolen his horse. Once, Drollo had ridden down a line of _unsullied _and removed all of their heads. They also said that he had saved the current _khal _when his bloodriders could not, taking an arrow for him in the knee.

In any case, Vorsak knew where to go. He would not go to the _khal, _where Drollo was almost certainly still describing what had happened to Thokk to Ralthokk. That was of no consequence, because Vorsak was going to set up the training field Drollo was going to use to train the blooded warriors. Acting as Master Drollo's assistant was fascinating. He could watch the charging and manoeuvre practice, the way strategies were executed. To the untrained eye, Dothraki hordes simply charged their enemy, hoping to instil fear in their enemies. Whilst there was an element of truth to that, the chaos of the charging line was followed by a carefully ordered ranks of riders with different roles. The spearmen, the arakh-wielding riders and archers all had specific instructions on their targets, on how to move and the order in which they should kill their enemies. As one of the _khal_'s most trusted Kos, Master Drollo knew a great deal about fighting and strategy, and he passed his knowledge to an eager Vorsak. Something about strategizing before battle felt right to him, and he had already helped plan one small raid.

None of this could compare, however, to what happened after the warriors left training and went to eat their food in the middle of the afternoon. With everyone else busy, Drollo would take Vorsak away from the rest of the group and teach him to wield the weapon left behind by his father. They only trained with wood for now, but it was weighted the same as a real one. Vorsak had trouble holding it with one hand, but Drollo would never let him use both.

"Your father taught me how to use sword many years ago," Drollo had told the boy when they were preparing for their first session, "and if I were better at it I would have found occasion to use it more often. He could disarm almost any _dothraki_ with an _arakh_ wielding this sword. It is a powerful weapon and, when walking, superior to ours. However, when riding, our weapon is better. One day, you may find yourself fighting armoured foes on foot. That day, you will be glad to have learned how to use this."

This had been the only time Drollo had mentioned his father, never again had it come up since, nor had Vorsak dared to ask for more details. This was the only connection to his father that he liked, and he wasn't going to lose it for opening his mouth when he shouldn't have.

It was very tough training, as Drollo never seemed to hold back much when he hit the lad. There was one particularly vicious whack that had hit a rib on his right side and it still ached _weeks_ later. Vorsak never complained though, he needed this. In the four months since he was training, not once had he slipped through Drollo's defences, he was simply too slow. Nevertheless, he knew he was getting better because now Drollo sometimes broke a sweat by the end of training.

After weapons training, it was time for Vorsak to go back to his mother's tent. As usual, she was admonishing the slaves for something they had done. She was extremely fond of mistreating them verbally, but would only very rarely abuse them physically. Even the words made Vorsak feel uneasy. He _liked _some of the slaves, especially the girl, Yonki, even if he knew he shouldn't. Disdain for slaves was natural for the Dothraki, the defeated had no need of or right to respect. They existed only to serve.

"Then again," he said aloud, to no one in particular when he was sure he was alone, "I'm not exactly a natural Dothraki."

As he said those words, he looked at the cloth hanging in his tent. It showed a big tree that seemed to be smiling right at him. He wished he knew what it was. 

**Hope you enjoyed it! Please leave a review if you did. I've got a rough plan on what I want to do with this story, but I'd appreciate any kind of feedback.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Vaes Dothrak**

To the outside observer, the Dothraki may come across as savages with no real order or system to their society – or rather, societies. However, this is and always was far away from the truth. Instead of identifying their years with a number before or after some event, they counted from the present. So what if events that happened long ago did not have a set date? "Recently," "Long ago" and "Very long ago" were sufficiently accurate for everyone, and the _vaesthirat_'s obsession with timekeeping was something the Dothraki despised. There were many things to dislike about city-dwellers everywhere. First off, they lived in houses, and _walked_ everywhere unless they were rich enough to buy a horse. They thought their houses made them look rich, opulent or, even more laughably, kept them safe. Safe from cold, safe from disease, safe from the stars, safe from the Dothraki hordes. Arrogant, most of them, but there were some city-dwellers smart enough to realise the danger they were really in, so they paid the Dothraki a yearly protection fee to not get attacked. It was only fair, because there were few things Dothraki liked more than plundering a big city, and they didn't like getting bored.

In any case, _that_ was a date the Dothraki never forgot. The city-dwellers had long since realised that separate hordes needed separate payment, so a complex system involving negotiators from each _khalasar _and the Free Cities gave the final amount owed to each. It could get bitter at times, but in general most _khalasars_ were happy with the results. The _khals_ had bigger worries than a missing gold coin here and there, usually more busy eyeing up the other _khalasars_ to see if it was worth having a go at taking them over, or if they were in any danger of getting deposed themselves. After payment had been received, the hordes celebrated together in and around Vaes Dothrak. During that time, all Dothraki were housed in the city that had been constructed almost solely by slave labour, the slaves' own unique mix of styles and architecture totally unrivalled anywhere in the world. And so, whilst for nine tenths of the year it was almost empty, now the city was teeming with life, buzzing with activity, smells and noise. To Vorsak, it seemed odd to despise city-dwellers for living in cities. The Dothraki had a city and _chose _not to stay there most of the time, but he had to admit there was something nice about not building a tent every day or getting wet when it rained. Of course, he was sure it was a _total_ coincidence that the time everyone used the city was during the month of rain. It wasn't just that though, there were many things to like. The huge market was always a treat, as it brought foods, snacks and trinkets from the farthest places imaginable, way beyond the Red Wastes, the Poison Sea and anywhere else he could think of. Then, there was the fact that no one had any weapons. Absolutely forbidden, drawing blood or fighting in general would be punished severely within the confines of the Vaes Dothrak. If two men got into an argument, they would have to settle it in the Dothraki Sea. In the rain. There was something nice about the fact that everyone was unarmed.

Above all, being in the capital city meant that any unblooded were free to do as they pleased. The supply of slaves was such in the city that there were no chores that needed doing at all. This meant Vorsak could go take a look around the western market where, like every year, he would look for something that could give him a clue on his father's country. His mother still remained tight-lipped about the man, revealing stupid details that gave him nothing to work with. There were four things he knew for sure about his father: he fought skilfully with a two-edged sword, he had had orange hair like Vorsak's, he came from across the Poison Sea and died saving Khal Kloyo's life. That last one was the reason Vorsak had been allowed to live among the Dothraki at all. The hair was too much for many to tolerate, and he could see the eyes following him now at the market as people steadily began to realise there was an unmistakably ginger Dothraki youngster walking around. Many among his own _khalasar _saw him as an embarrassment, someone who should be hidden or, even better, destroyed or at least cast out.

Vorsak sighed as he made his way through the food section, ignoring his stomach's roar at the wonderful smell coming from the smoked meats. After the unexciting furs, he got to the live animals that were for sale. The vast majority were horses of all shapes and sizes. Destriers from Westeros were easiest to spot among them, gigantic but slow muscular workhorses favoured by armoured city-dwellers and their cataphracts, who thought a thin plate of metal in front of their hearts would save them from Dothraki arrows. Although these horses were ill-suited for traditional Dothraki warfare, they were strong and could pull big carts of slaves and equipment, and in a pinch would yield far more meat than a mere mule. Then, there were the Dornish coursers often favoured by scouts for being small, fast and manoeuvrable, but these weren't very useful in battles due to their tendency to panic and sensitivity to any kind of pain. Aside from these there were donkeys, summer horses, a gigantic beast Vorsak eventually remembered was called an elephant, and finally his favourites: zorses. The black and white striped animals from the Shadowlands were the perfect combination of fast, strong, agile and ferocious in battle, famous for kicking and biting their foes. Of course, anyone who wanted to ride one not only had to be unspeakably rich to buy one, but able to convince the zorse he was worthy on sitting on its back. Everyone knew that was not an easy task. They required constant reminding of the rider's dominance until their first battle. If the rider and zorse survived, a bond formed between the two and that zorse would be loyal to that man forever. Most Dothraki children dreamed of riding one when they grew up, and Vorsak had as well. Tellingly however, no one in his _khalasar _even owned one.

Watching the animals became boring eventually, so Vorsak decided he had wasted enough time and made his way through to the trinkets. Souvenirs and treasures from far-away places were kept here. Grotesque monstrosities carved out of black rock, exotic weaponry such as crossbows and armour. Odd, really, since Dothraki didn't wear it. It was easy to forget that this market was also a place for the traders to deal with each other. Presumably, Dothraki were not their target demographic. As Vorsak made his way through the tables that had been set up, the quality of goods and the care they had been given began to decline. The further one got from the horses, the poorer the traders were. Eventually, he reached the last salesman. An old man sitting on a chair, he was obviously bored beyond belief, keeping a lazy eye over his wares. They seemed to be ornately decorated slabs of leather and wood. One of these in particular caught Vorsak's eye and he moved closer to take a look. The salesman, surprised that a Dothraki was looking at his collection of books, cleared his throat to indicate he could be of assistance.

"What are these?" asked Vorsak, totally unperturbed by the man clearing his throat, staring at the beautiful bronze tree that had been stuck to the leather binding.

The old man seemed to regain his composure and a broad smile appeared on his face before he answered.

"Books," he said. "They are there to help us learn from those before us or those still alive. They allow us to keep knowledge, and not lose it."

The little ginger boy seemed utterly confused at the concept. The old man however, could see he had a potential client. Obviously, the boy was not pure Dothraki. Perhaps the boy wanted to learn. He could never resist helping those who wanted to learn.

"Most lords and ladies in the world can read," said the old man. He picked up one of the books and opened it to a random page. "Reading means being able to understand these symbols and drawings. That is where the knowledge is."

"I've never seen anyone with a book in my _khalasar _before," said Vorsak almost dubiously. "Why would they not use books if they're as useful as you say? Do other _khalasars _have them?"

"No," came the answer. "Dothraki do not believe that reading has any power, that it shows weakness. However, if you have any learned slaves, it's possible that they have one or two."

The boy stopped talking for a moment, picking up the book with the tree on it. Unlike the one that usually hung in his tent (or, like now, in his room), this one had leaves and flowers. But the smile was still there. Carefully, he opened the cover and was astonished at what he could see inside. Intricate drawings of hills covered in mountains he had never seen, with forts in a very unusual style. Around them, black symbols seemed to cover the page, sometimes repeating and sometimes not appearing for sizable amounts of time.

"So how do the symbols work?" he asked.

"Each symbol makes a sound," started the salesman. "For example this makes the sound _arr, _this one is just _ah,_ and this third one makes a _kh_. Anyone who can read, can see that when they are together, it means _arakh_."

Puzzled, Vorsak was once again lost in thought. He was about to inquire about the price of the book with the tree when there was a surprised gasp behind him. He turned to see Yonki, the slavegirl, stare at him in fear with her hand over her mouth.

"I'm sorry master, I was just getting the food and I got lost and…" she started, losing her train of thought, eyeing the bookstand.

She was a little older than Vorsak, maybe thirteen or fourteen. He couldn't remember when she and the rest of her family had been brought to his mother, but it was a long time ago. Likely taken prisoner during one of the raids, she spent most of her time cleaning pots or preparing food. As such, he didn't talk to her much. She was also in deep horse-_graddakh, _since she was obviously not doing what she was supposed to be doing. He knew his mother would not be kind and would likely give her a lashing once they left the city.

"Can you read?" he asked her. Somewhat shocked by the question, she remained silent, looking at her feet and getting desperate. "I won't tell my mother, I promise!"

Yonki moved her head up sharply at the statement. Although the younger boy had never insulted her or gotten her into trouble on purpose, they were far from friends. He was a Dothraki master, she was a slave. His mother was always reminding her of just how worthless she really was.

Finally, she let out a breath. Then, she seemed to vomit out the information she spoke so fast. "Yes, I can read Valyrian, my family is from Norvos and we used to be rich so my father, who died during the raid, paid for me to get lessons, I was always very good, and I enjoyed reading the stories of the bearded priests and the guardsmen and the bells."

"Can you teach me?" he asked. "I want to learn how."

The excitement was plain to see in his face. Yonki nodded, seeing no other way out. It would be challenging to add this to her current list of chores, but it was better than getting whipped by his mother. At least, she figured she might be able to use this as a bargaining chip one day. Anyway, she owed him, no matter how small and innocent he was. His ginger hair betrayed the fact that he was different from the others.

After scoffing at the price of the book with the metal tree, they instead purchased two small books with far less decorations. Vorsak and Yonki both loved it, although they were sure not to show their excitement to each other.

_After all,_ thought the boy, _we're not friends and we never will be. She is going to teach me to read, that's all._

**A/N: Hi, I hope you enjoy this. Yes, I know, more than a little farfetched. But it's a fun idea to play with. Bear in mind, I am going to pick and choose what I take from the show and from the books. The arakh in this, for example, are like in show. The language is too, and so far I haven't made up any words. **

**This is probably going to get quite long eventually. I've got tons of work to do outside of this, so I can't write often. Please forgive me.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thought I'd throw in a cheeky chapter for today **** No seriously, I shouldn't have written this, now I'm behind on all my work!**

**Slavery**

Yonki knew she was in big trouble, likely more than she had ever been in before. While packing the belongings of her mistress, a shiny beetle had appeared to drop on the floor. In a moment of panic, the girl had stomped on it to make sure it was dead. However, upon closer inspection it had not been a real beetle at all, rather a golden brooch in the shape of some sort of elephant. It did not look like the ones at the market at all, a few features seemed different. The ears were bigger, and the style made it look as if it were hairy. Its back seemed more sloped than the elephants she had seen, and the trunk longer – it looped to the feet and back up again, something a normal elephant could not achieve. Made of gold and encrusted with jewels, the most striking features were the two tusks made of real ivory. Yonki figured it must have taken the jeweller a very long time and quite some patience to polish two pieces this small. However, after her stomp, she had noticed that one of the tusks was clearly broken – and the second half of it had simply disappeared. And this was the time she began to panic. The mistress would go ballistic when she found out, that much was sure, and the timing could not have been worse: they were leaving Vaes Dothrak at dawn, and as soon as they would reach the city limits, Yonki would be in for a good whipping or beating. Although theoretically as a slave she could be beaten within the city, most Dothraki didn't like doing so because it showed a lack of self-control. Desperate, the girl looked for the broken piece on her hands and knees, praying to find it and stick it together again somehow, long enough for the mistress to think she broke it herself.

"Just what do you think you are doing, little _zafra_?" came a voice that surprised Yonki and made her freeze. Her heart sank, she had not had the time to find the ivory and she had been caught doing something suspicious red-handed. Whenever the mistress called her "slave", not her name, she was very close to punishment. "Stand. Look at me."

Slowly, Yonki got up and faced the mistress. A fearsome woman, her temper was only matched by her beauty. Long, black hair seemed to surround a thin, slightly angular face. Dark, but well-groomed eyebrows always seemed to accentuate any emotion she displayed in her eyes. Her eyes, blessed with long dark lashes any woman would fight for, were covered in the black eye shadow all Dothraki wore. They were sharp eyes, too. She never missed a mistake a slave made, and always knew where she had been by noticing small details on the girl's clothing. For example, she had known Yonki went to see the animals at the market by noticing a lone zorse hair on her shoulder. Luckily, Vorsak had taken the books home, or that day would have gotten a lot worse. The nose was magnificent, small and sweet. Her lips were blessedly large, usually kept sand-coloured, sometimes red. The mistress wore a beautiful garment that was essentially a cloth wrapped around her. The colours were bright orange and light blue, it fit her perfectly of course. She was a woman with power, men tried everything to gain her favour. Many had gained it, Yonki knew, as she was usually present to provide refreshment during and after mating, as well as prepare the mistress' bath with a special herb that prevented her from being with child. It was as if the mistress felt ashamed of what she was doing.

"Now tell me," she started, "what exactly it is you are doing with the brooch my _mahrazhkem_ gave me in _your _hand."

Yonki knew she was now not only in big trouble, but in danger too. If this brooch was from her husband, the mistress would react extremely violently if she had broken it. However, she could not invent a whole new story that would exonerate her completely. She decided to go for a half-truth. The words came out fast, almost blurted. She hated the way she spoke when she was scared or nervous, but there was nothing she could do. Tears were already welling up in her eyes.

"Mistress, I was packing your items for when we depart and one of the garments you wore this morning must have had the brooch on it, and then it must have been loose because it fell. I am so sorry, Mistress! Please forgive me but it broke!"

Through her teary eyes, Yonki did not even see the hand early enough to flinch. The slap caught her completely by surprise and she stumbled to the floor.

"Give it to me, now!" shouted the enraged mother. "Show me where it's broken, and don't say a word!"

Yonki got up, the sting of the slap still fresh on her left cheek which was now swelling up. She could barely open her left eye. She handed the golden elephant brooch over, pointing at the broken tusk, preparing herself mentally for another slap. This was easily the hardest one she had ever received in the face, since usually her buttocks had received punishment. Her ear was ringing and her vision, as well as being impeded by her cheek, was spinning. Suddenly, the mistress gave a loud, cheerful cackle.

"Oh Yonki, you are such a _tokik_," she said, showing her the brooch. The slave noted the complete change in her mistress' intonation. Calling her a fool by name after laughing was certainly not what she had been expecting next. "It's _supposed _to be this way, see? The broken part is polished too. You gave me quite a fright, young girl. My _mahrazhkem _gave me this many years ago. The beast you see is not an elephant, it is called a _mamut. _They can live until they are very old, and this one was the oldest of them all. They called it _Onetusk_. The brooch comes from beyond the _Poison Sea_."

Yonki looked at the _mamut _and wondered what they looked like in real life. She had never heard of such a beast before in her life. After ordering her to carry on with the packing, the mistress left to do something else, so the girl was alone again. The ringing in her ear persisted, as did the swelling on her cheek and the light spinning of the room. A bruise was sure to develop, especially where the metal from a ring had hit her. The mistress had never apologised, but she figured that would have been far too much to expect. Although her face hurt, Yonki felt lucky anyway. After all, had the brooch really been broken, there was almost no doubt in her mind that the beating would have been severe. Maybe she would have died.

In the end, it was best to continue her assigned task even if she was feeling dizzy. She was a little slower than normal, but that hardly mattered. Luckily, after packing, there would be no big tasks left apart from teaching Master Vorsak how to read after serving food. This would be happening at candlelight in the middle of the night, no one could know it was occuring. They were still unsure about how to continue the lessons once they were out in the grass sea – someone would be bound to notice a candle lit in the night, and that was usually not allowed – but she found herself looking forward to it. There was something enjoyable about being the one in charge, and the boy, for he was certainly no man yet, was kind to her. Yonki had decided against telling her own mother and the other slaves. Her mother would be sure to admonish her and forbid the lessons whilst Joq'uill and Zoy'rahel, the two male slaves tasked with doing the heavy lifting, would definitely reveal her actions to the mistress. They were not unfriendly men, but they reported everything they saw and heard to their owner and would certainly try to get ahead of her in the pecking order. It seemed the mistress preferred Yonki and her mother, perhaps simply because of their gender.

Teaching Vorsak was surprisingly easy. He had a sharp mind and seemed to pick up the idea of reading very quickly. First, they had gone through the alphabet, teaching him what each letter meant and what sound it made. He confessed later that he spent almost his whole day repeating the alphabet in his head to memorise it. Amazingly he could recite each letter and recognise it within the week. However, the reading part was taking more time. The boy was slow, and still talked very slowly and followed his finger on the page. Yonki figured that was due to the fact that he was also earning Norvosi Valyrian, since unfortunately there was no written Dothraki for him to learn. The books at the market were written in all sorts of languages, and Vorsak had soon proudly claimed that he would learn them all.

"No man will be able to lie to me or talk about me behind my back without me understanding," he had said. "I will be able to order captured slaves around, and get more money for the _khalasar _from the Free Cities if I know what they are saying, and they don't realise."

In truth, she knew that was probably not possible, even with his motivation. Nevertheless, it was probably the _noblest _thing she'd ever heard a Dothraki say. Not that that was hard. On this particular evening, the boy seemed particularly restless.

"How are we going to do this in the grassy fields?" he asked, clearly worried. "Everyone will see that I'm with a _zafranayat_. Not only a girl, but a _slave_girl. They will insult me even more than they already do."

"Don't worry, Little Master," replied Yonki, she had taken to calling him that since the start of their lessons a month earlier. "We shall surely find a way to teach you to read without my presence causing you embarrassment."

Vorsak looked at her with a surprised expression. She noticed then, that even if he had not inherited his mother's hair or thin face, he did have her eye lashes – except they were orange. A pang of jealousy, irrational as it was, grew within her at the thought of having pretty eyelashes.

"I'm sorry if you think I am embarrassed because of you," he said. "It's not what I meant. But they already laugh at me so much, and insult me so often, that them seeing us together, with me learning to read, would make things a lot worse."

Yonki almost felt sorry for him for a moment, but then she remembered. She remembered Issi, her village on the banks of the river Noyne, burning. The Dothraki raiders had made short work of the small Norvosi garrison, soon busy killing, raping and pillaging. Yonki, her three older sisters, mother and father had all hidden in their sandstone house, praying for it to be over soon. Of course, their prayers had been answered, but not exactly how they wished. Lit torches had been tossed in through windows, setting the beautiful Norvosi tapestries that decorated their home ablaze. The smoke was soon too much and they were forced to open their reinforced door and get out. Outside had stood a Dothraki commander and ten men, all aiming their bows at the door. He had ordered everyone to kneel in front of him. She remembered her father kneeling in front of them to shield them. The _arakh _had been sharp, it cut through his neck as if it were made of butter. Yonki remembered being ten years old and not understanding what had just happened. Just that her father was hurt, her mother was screaming, her sisters were crying and that the smoke made it difficult for her to breathe and her eyes sting. Before they knew what was happening, she and her mother had been violently thrust towards one wagon, her sisters into another. Again, her mother had cried, screamed and begged, pleading with the Dothraki warriors not to separate her from her three eldest daughters, praying to the gods that everything would be alright. Again, the gods had not really listened, although at least they had managed to keep Yonki with her. For years, Yonki's mother used every opportunity to look for her daughters around the _khalasar_, but she had never found them in this one or the _khal's_ brother's. They were simply gone, never to be seen again.

Then, they were gifted to their mistress, Vorsak's mother. They got treated like dirt, less than human. She beat them sometimes, but usually her stings and jabs were verbal. They could be far worse, destroying Yonki's self-confidence. She had been called worthless, ugly, slow, stupid, foolish, pig-nosed, wide-eyed, big-eared and slave-handed. Sometimes she was too skinny, other times too muscly. Already, the girl could feel the anger building inside of her just thinking about everything. And here she was, teaching _him, _a young Dothraki, how to read. These savages had no concept of reading, of art, of poetry or romance. They raped their own women, abandoned their newborn children and ate raw horse. They lived in the dirt: eating, sleeping and even fucking in the mud. Yonki knew that some slaves got used to being slaves, to feeling worthless and simply getting on with their lives. She knew that the first chance she got to escape and return to Norvos, she leap at. If it meant killing someone, then so be it. If it meant leaving her mother behind, then so be it too. She had the right to live a free life.

"What's wrong?" asked Vorsak, startling her out of her daydream. "You've been angrily staring at that wall for some time now."

She sighed. She was not brave enough to escape and she knew it. "It's nothing, Little Master."

"Oh good," he replied, "You know I like these lessons. I would miss them terribly if we couldn't have them."

At least Vorsak was still a sweet boy. Full of bravado about being tough, she could tell he didn't believe half of what he was saying about murdering innocent people. Not for now, at least. Suddenly, she had a realisation.

"When I go fetch the water in the mornings before dawn, I am always alone. Your mother and friends are still asleep, but there would be enough light to read somewhere in the tall grass, away from prying eyes. We would have to get up a little earlier so that I am not late to start cooking the breakfast, but I don't mind if you don't!"

She had never seen Vorsak smile so widely. His childish side was appearing again, something one seldom saw in Dothraki children his age. Usually, they were all business, often more violent than the older ones. For a split second, she felt like they could be friends. She desperately wanted a friend. But then she remembered again, and quashed the feeling.

**Right, no, but seriously, this is it for this weekend. Hope you enjoyed it, feel free to leave a review if you did!**


	4. Chapter 4

**It's been a little while – I'm back for a little bit. Decided not to split this chapter in the end.**

**Zhani**

"The _zhani _is the weapon of our ancestors and will forever be feared," said Master Drollo. "With my spear, I can fight you no matter what weapon you wield."

"What if I have a _kohol_?" Asked Fogo. "My arrows will kill you before you are close!"

The old _ko _glared at the young lad. Instead of answering immediately however, he suddenly turned, took a three-step run-up and threw his seven-foot long spear at least fifty paces. The spear split the tree it had been aimed at as it entered, piercing it completely and coming to a stop, simply hanging inside the now Y-shaped trunk.

"Fogo, I'm pretty sure you would actually have my _zhani_ peeking out of your unwashed arsehole."

The crowd of assembled teenage boys - about five hundred of them, all dark hair except for one - erupted into laughter, with even Fogo showing an uncomfortable smile. He liked challenging their trainer, because usually this kind of demonstration would occur, alleviating the boredom he felt during lessons. Bossak clapped him on the shoulder as he roared in mirth. Something had changed within the usually reserved boy; suddenly he was more willing to talk, more open with his emotions. Fogo decided to find out what it was.

"Now then," continued Master Drollo. "You have been practicing with short javelins since you are little boys. These have their uses, but only a spear will pierce bronze shields. Although it's not bad if you manage to, you are not using spears to kill. You are using it to weigh down their shields so much they cannot wield them. Only then can the archers truly do their work. A foe without a shield is lost. The _vaesthirat_ don't know how to fight without them, and that is their weakness."

Vorsak wondered why city-dwellers did not train without a shield. It was known that the shield, along with any form of metal armour, was a shameful item to carry into combat. Of course, people on foot were easier targets for archers than riders were, so he understood why they carried them. He had seen the _Lhazareen _defences simply stand still while they were under attack during the last raid which, considering their village had had no walls, seemed like the tactics of a simpleton. Their pikes had been set up for a cavalry charge, but a few volleys of arrows and spears had made it laughably easy for the Dothraki to wipe them out. The Dothraki favoured cavalry, but they were light cavalry. They would never be foolish enough to charge into a wall of pikes without weakening it significantly, not since the disaster at Qohor some 400 years prior.

Master Drollo went on to describe how a coalition of _khalasars_ had sacked Volantis when he was but a young warrior, as it had been his first battle following his blooding. He seemed to get almost nostalgic as he recounted the slave soldiers taking on the dishonourable task of capturing and opening the gates. Once those were open, it had been time for the Screamers to do their thing. The long, narrow bridge that spanned the river _Rhoyne_ had featured the last stand of the Volantene defences. In theory, it was perfect as a place for the few remaining soldiers to stay. In practice, staying out in any form of the open was their mistake. Forming a Cantabrian Circle, the Dothraki Screamers had thrown spear after spear and fired arrow after arrow into what should have been a terrifying shield and spear wall. The manoeuvre was very similar to the game of _osfir eveth, _except riders rode in a circle and fired outward, preferably at one target in particular. By the time they made their way around, they would reload their bow or have their next spear ready. Defenders' shields had been pierced by the spears. Once the spears entered these shields, the soft base of the metal spearhead bent, making it impossible to remove, making shield unwieldy since it now had a seven-foot-long, heavy pole attached to it. Once the shield was discarded, arrows rained through and killed the men. This process had allowed the Dothraki coalition to break through over the bridge and steal thousands of slaves from the Volantenes. The Free City's ruling Triarch had agreed to start paying their now doubled, outrageous yearly "protection fee" again, and the Dothraki hadn't attacked since. They hadn't needed to.

As Master Drollo finished his lesson in history, the _khal _himself arrived, his three _dothrakhqoyi _at either side and behind him. Even next to his fearsome bloodriders, Khal Felaho always made a terrifying sight. All the boys stood up straighter when they saw him arrive. Vorsak strained to see him from near the back and saw the swirling tattoos, the long braid and the shimmer of many bells.

"Future _lajak_!" roared Khal Felaho. His deep voice boomed towards the boys-who-would-one-day-become-warriors, some instinctively flinching. Others, like Vorsak or Bossak, simply stared in awe. Never before had their leader come to see _them_. "Today marks the beginning of your journey towards being blooded. Today will be the first test. Only two more years, and you will be doing some real killing and growing out your braids!"

Vorsak found himself joining into the cheering. He was _part _of something now. These few words had already begun to unify the boys that, until recently, had been busy with their petty squabbles.

The _khal _came closer, trotting to the very front of the children. 500 boys, all nearing the age of 12, were lined up here. All of them would swear later that the _khal _had singled them out with his eyes when he strolled by. Even Vorsak felt a surge of pride when he believed he received a curt nod from the mass of muscle before him. He rode a mix-race horse that was part-courser, part-destrier. Unlike a normal destrier, this one was far from slow, and this stallion in particular was known to be vicious in a charge.

"In accordance with our traditions, you will all go out on your own over the coming four weeks," said the _khal. _"The Forest of Qohor will be the destination for you, your horse, and your spears. Do not worry about city-dwellers, access to the forest has been assured. Bring me a carcass, and I will let you eat its heart. The _vezhven fona_ begins for you tonight!"

Again, the children cheered, shaking their spears. All of them had dreamed of going on the great hunt, and now they would finally be participating. The great hunt was an event organised to keep the men sharp of wit and their bodies fit. Any man who could ride took part over the coming months, and any worth his salt would bring more than a rat. To ensure that not all animals were killed, hunting on such a scale was only allowed for a couple of months after the month of rain, and the place where it occurred was rotated annually, giving all areas time to recover from the slaughter for a few years. Vorsak figured there were about seven thousand able-bodied, free men in the _khalasar, _so that meant at least seven thousand animals would be dying. Yes, there was danger. This was part of Dothraki childhood, and everyone knew some boys would die on this trip.

Later, on the way to their tents Bossak and Fogo were full of bravado, Vorsak deep in thought behind.

"It'll be easy!" said Bossak. "All I'll need to do is get close enough to stab whatever it is I find with the spear. That way, I won't need to throw it."

"That's stupid," replied Fogo. "Far better to tip-toe towards them from downwind, then throw the spear ten paces. Even if the thing doesn't die, it'll have a spear sticking out if it. Then finish it with a dagger."

"What do you think the _maegi _will tell us?" asked Vorsak. He was preoccupied by magic. It wasn't something he trusted at all, but the old wives had a prophecy for each boy. The prophecy relied upon which animal had been hunted, for the _maegi _needed something to read from. Importantly, this was not blood magic, there was no sacrifice involved as such. This was something that was absolutely forbidden in Dothraki culture, for blood magic always carried a consequence. He recounted what he had been told by Master Drollo during one of their sparring sessions.

"You will receive predictions based on three areas: battle, family, and power," he had said. "The greater the carcass you bring, the more interested those old hags will be in giving you a true prophesy."

Fogo laughed. "I don't think we'll be bringing them a lion like Drollodid when he was our age. A _vizhadi _lemur is tough to kill with a spear, and I think that's what I'll be going for. Plus, it's tasty. Last time we went through the forest I got to eat some. Bossak, I just hope you don't run out of food!"

Vorsak guffawed. Lately, the three of them had been spending more time together, and this was the kind of needling Fogo dispersed mercilessly. The new level of intimate friendship was something the ginger lad was not used to. Ever since the day he had hit the water bottle two months prior, he had been allowed to be in their team during games or sparring practice. Before, he had not had the chance to practice his dagger and whipping skills, or even gone horse-catching with anyone. Bossak and Fogo didn't mind that he was terrible as a result of this lack of practice, preferring instead to show him what he had missed. He was planning on showing them how to wield a sword in return, but it was a dangerous secret to reveal to them.

As for the food, there was no real danger of this being a problem. Each boy got a decent sack of smoked bushmeat and dried dates for the trip. The dehydrated foods were exceptionally useful because they did not spoil, and the lack of water made them lighter and therefore easier to carry when traveling light. In any case, there was ample supply of food within the forest itself. Rats and snakes could be caught and eaten, and there were plenty of berries and fruit to keep on sustained if this was not wanted.

Vorsak's tent was the first. The boys hugged and wished one another good luck. This would be the last time they would see each other before the great feast four weeks later, and even though they didn't believe it, it was possible that one or more of them would never return. Vorsak got off his horse and tied the mare up outside on the post. Strolling into his family tent, he saw Yonki stirring a pot filled with some delicious-smelling stew. Her mother, Faelli, was brushing his mother's hair, as she sat on a stool as if it were some sort of throne. The tent had been decorated with Norvosi tapestries, with a bright torch shining through a hole at the top.

"Come, my son," said his mother. "It is time to prepare you for your first real test."

As was the tradition now, each family prepared its boys for the trip that would begin in a few hours. One relative, a blooded warrior, would pick them up from the great fire and bring the boy to his unique assigned starting position at midnight. This relative would wait for them there for five nights in case there was a problem, but would leave on the sixth day. The boys were expected to make their way back to the _khalasar _on their own another three weeks later, bringing the carcass – however large it may be – to the great feast themselves. As such, it was discouraged to hunt for elephants.

Vorsak's mother hugged him, handing him a beautiful horse-leather bag as a gift. She had been waiting to give it to him since his father had died. He refrained from opening it immediately, preferring to keep the surprise for later, out in the wilderness. It would likely provide him with some much needed comfort, as apparently it had been prepared by his father in anticipation of his first great hunt. After dinner, he noticed Yonki flash him a smile when his mother wasn't looking, busy fussing over him as he climbed onto his mare. He gave the horse her customary apple and turned towards the great fire located at the centre of the camp, waving back at the slave-girl. Luckily, his mother hadn't seen her peeking from behind the tent and thought the wave was for her.

As Vorsak got closer to the great fire he passed entire extended families who were seeing their children off to their first hunt. Depending on the family's wealth the fanfare was more or less noticeable. A small child cried after losing its parents somewhere, whilst outside one tent a fight broke out between two fathers boasting about their sons. Elsewhere, a slave was hollering in Dothraki, advertising his abilities as a tattoo artist. This was not for now, since the unblooded were not permitted to have any, but for the future, the seed of an idea for later, so that they would know who to go to. Frequently, the newly blooded would get plastered drunk on fermented horse milk or wine and get matching tattoos. Perhaps, Vorsak mused, it would be possible to have Fogo and Bossak have matching tattoos with him. This made him grin stupidly. At the great fire itself, the boys lined up as they arrived, in no particular order, all sitting on their fully-loaded horses. Vorsak himself had two saddle-bags with provisions, two leather bottles of water, and his two spears packed in tight on the sides. Like everyone else in his line, he wore no armour, only basic tunics and trousers for riding. The bag from his father was strapped tightly to the back of the horse, right behind him. The great fire had been fed with more wood today as a tribute to the Great Stallion, the only god worshipped by the Dothraki. A horn blew, and it was time for the ceremony to begin.

A maegi, naked as the day she was born, tore through the flames screaming. Sparks, pieces of burning kindle and wood flew into the air as she made it out again, totally unharmed. Mostly, Vorsak presumed, due to the fact that she had been so fast. The drums began, a fast, steady beat that seemed to make his own heartbeat accelerate. The naked maegi was joined by four others, all shrieking and screeching as they danced in circles, hissing at the boys and any others present. A quick flip, and they were waving gigantic palm leaves in an organised pattern, and pretending to ride them like a toy horse. The bushes under their armpits and between their legs were massive, clearly unkempt. Maegi were old, crazy ladies in Vorsak's opinion, and he wasn't interested in looking at them any longer. Some minutes later, at long last, the drumming suddenly stopped, followed by one, united shriek as the maegi fell onto their backs, convulsing as they entered a trance.

The drums now set out a fast, much steadier beat that resembled a galloping horse's hooves hitting a road, three short hits followed by a slightly longer pause, repeated. As if on cue, the long line of mentors arrived on their horses. Led by the _khal _himself – who would undoubtedly be taking his own son to the forest limits – they lined up opposite, on the other side of the fire. The drumming stopped, and the only sound that remained came from the great fire and a thousand horses. One of the _khal_'s _kos, _a man Vorsak did not recognise, wandered into the space in the middle of the large _fonakasar_. His voice was surprisingly high as he addressed the hunting party.

"_Imeshi fonaki_!" he roared. The young hunters roared unintelligibly in return. "Tonight, you begin your ride towards the Great Stallion. Some of you will stay with him, others will beg him for help. Go to your company's assigned corner of the great fire, and meet your mentor there."

The horn blew again. Now, it was time for the mess of horses and boys to find their way to one of the four corners, whichever their company had been assigned to. Vorsak's company was Fang, so he navigated his way in the right direction. Suddenly, something damp hit his cheek. Instinctively, the boy drew his hand and felt with his fingers, turning towards the source of the dampness. He heard a laugh, but through the mass of children he could not see its origin. Of course, he recognised that laughter. It was Thokk's laugh when he had just done something mean. There was no time to chase him down and challenge him, everyone was in a rush. Wiping the spit away, Vorsak finally arrived at his spot. Master Drollo was already waiting. The old man nodded as he finally saw the boy, and the two left together without a word. There was no fanfare anymore, no big speech, nothing like it. With Vorsak having no male relatives, Drollo had volunteered to mentor the ginger boy as a favour to his mother. Having heard the noises that came from her tent at night, Vorsak was pretty sure he knew why Drollo was doing him so many favours, but if this was the way it had to be, he was ready to accept it.

The two trotted off together without a word, pulling away from the camp and making a sharp turn into the grass. Drollo had taken this route many times before, especially with his at least twelve, now blooded, sons. After an hour, the old man finally spoke.

"Who did it?" he asked.

Vorsak did not know how Drollo had noticed, but decided not to answer. He was not in the mood for explaining why he had not challenged Thokk to a duel as he was about to depart on his first hunt. Doing so with broken teeth and a black eye would not have been helpful.

"The soot from the great fire looked smeared on your face," Drollo continued. "At first I thought it had been tears, but that would plainly be ridiculous considering your life so far. Who did it? I just want to know."

After a pause which Vorsak felt was getting awkward he finally answered. "I'm not sure. I heard Thokk laughing, but I can't prove it was him."

Drollo seemed to seethe at the mere mention of Thokk's name. The incident at the riding game had been inexcusable, and Thokk's black marks, which carried for weeks and were still visible on parts of him, showed that his father had not appreciated the shame brought upon his family name. Again, the two became quiet. For a long time, they rode in silence, even the horses not breathing overly heavily. The sky was completely clear and it was a full moon, so now that their eyes had adapted they could see further. The forest, simply a dark stripe several miles away, was still visible despite the distance. Crickets sang their song, but otherwise there was total silence. Vorsak saw movement a little bit further, probably a boar or similar trotting away to safety from the huddled body, but he had always had exceptional vision in the dark and, as Drollo had not reacted, he figured only he had seen it. It was known that the lands over the _Poison Sea _sometimes turned into total darkness for many moons, and perhaps his father had passed on this ability, and not just the ginger locks.

"Take my advice, Vorsa Jahak," started the old man when they reached the edge of the forest and prepared his camp. Vorsak was shocked – he had never been called this by anyone but his mother. He saw a flash of white from Drollo's face. A smile? "Go into the forest as deep as you can. Use the Great Stallion in the sky to go North-West. Do not forget that the Forest of Qohor is vast. Ride for a week in that direction, and you will meet the source of the Qhoyne. It is a lake that springs from the ground and turns into a river. You cannot miss it. Ride a further three days and you will reach the hills with the tall trees. Spend three days there. If you find nothing, turn and come back, hunt on your way."

It seemed insane to go so far away. At the same time, it made sense: first, the chance of encountering others was slimmer the deeper into the woods he went. This was a good aspect, as the last thing he needed was a group of Dothraki boys ganging up on him or stealing the prey he had hunted. Unbound from their leashes for the first time, it was known that some children were willing to do _anything _to arrive at the _khalasar _bathed in the glory of a big kill. It was also known that some first-time hunters never returned, but would later be found with a spear in their bellies. Vorsak shuddered at the thought of what would happen if he met Thokk. Another advantage of going far into the woods was that he was more likely to encounter wild game. An elk was his dream animal to catch. It would be big, but worth the effort of bringing back. Lastly, the hills had a further advantage: the air would be cooler. Less rashes, less sweat, it would be an altogether far more comfortable experience.

After the campfire for Master Drollo was set up, it was time to go. The moon had reached its highest point of the night, and Vorsak had decided to heed the advice he had been given. The old man had fallen asleep by the fire, so the boy added some wood so that it wouldn't die too quickly. Then, he got onto his horse and rode off into the darkness. His starting point was one of the many wildlife paths that had developed over generations. At least he could be sure it would not lead directly to a sinkhole of some sort, but so little light penetrated the canopy that it was quite hard to keep track of the star constellations. The most important, the Great Stallion, was barely visible at times, and Vorsak also felt his eyes grow tired. His body was still fine, the issue was that he was spending so much time concentrating at the sky. A dried date helped reinvigorate his senses, as did the realisation that every other boy his age had also just started their hunt. Four weeks alone were a daunting prospect, hunting any animal larger than a rat was a big task even with a spear, and the consequences of getting caught by other Dothraki boys were terrifying. Never, in his life, had Vorsa Jahak felt such an exhilarating feeling.

**This took quite a while to write so I hope you enjoyed it - it's the longest chapter yet! Initially, I was going to split it quite some time ago, but the Great Hunt needed to begin properly. I realised recently that I missed up the timeline with Yonki a bit, but that's fixed now. If you find any errors, have any comments or praise, please leave a review. I read them all.**


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